


practical anatomy

by honestground



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Dick Pics, F/M, First Time, For Science!, Hand Jobs, Link is actually a gross teenage boy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Zelda is intrigued, two dorks sorting their shit out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-10 13:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13502861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestground/pseuds/honestground
Summary: Is the Goddess still testing him? Has he not suffered enough in this lifetime? Was killing the Calamity not enough—now he has to explain morning wood to the Princess of Hyrule?(in which Zelda discovers an unsavoury image on the Sheikah Slate and Link must face the consequences)





	1. Chapter 1

They’ve been sitting by the fire in comfortable silence—bar Link humming to himself while he cooks—when Zelda suddenly gasps so loudly he almost oversalts the meat.

He looks up, startled by the noise; Zelda has been quiet all evening, busy catching up on one hundred years’ worth of flora and fauna with the Sheikah Slate in her lap. Presently, though, she’s red in the face, the light from the Slate reflected in her wide eyes, but as soon as she notices him looking she hastily swipes at the screen and practically throws it aside.

“I’m going to go wash up,” she says tersely, standing, and before Link can say anything, she stalks off in the direction of the river.

Link stares after her, nonplussed. He waits until she’s out of sight, then strides around the fire and picks up the Slate from where she left it, curious to see what has her so flustered. 

She’d evidently been looking through all the images he’d captured on his journey. Nothing particularly riveting, though there are some of him; maybe she was offended by his obnoxious posing? He flips haphazardly through the film roll until he glimpses something distinctly different from the usual blurs of green and brown, so he stops and backtracks until—

… oh no.

He stares down at the image in abject horror, recalling with sudden clarity the moment it had been captured. He’d slept bare that night, safe in his home in Hateno, and was woken by the light of early morning shining through the windows and the beginnings of a warm, pleasant tightness between his legs. He had kicked off the sheets and laid on his back, absentmindedly stroking himself as he absorbed the comfort and correctness of waking up in his own bed—and he recalls looking down, drowsily admiring flushed, pink skin bathed in golden light… and reached for the Sheikah Slate at his bedside.

 _Why not?_ he’d thought sleepily, the Slate at arms’ length and aimed at his lap. _It’s not like anyone else will ever see it._

“Fuck,” Link says. “ _Fuck_.”

He taps some commands into the Slate until he receives confirmation that the image has been erased, but he knows it’s too little too late. He sets it back where Zelda had left it and sits down, putting his face in his hands, just taking a moment to absorb the fact that the Princess of Hyrule has seen his—

“Fuck,” Link whispers again, just for good measure. He can feel himself starting to panic, his hands itching to take up a weapon, so he determinedly returns to the fire to finish making dinner.

Thank Hylia that cooking has become one of his healthier coping mechanisms.

Sure enough, the meat is grilled to perfection and Link’s eternal poker face is back in place by the time Zelda returns from the river. She’s still faintly pink, but maintains an air of nonchalance as she sits down again—resolutely ignoring the Sheikah Slate beside her—and though she thanks him politely when he hands her a plate, she doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

They eat in silence until Link breaks it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Zelda stiffens for a moment, clearly deciding whether or not to feign ignorance, before she eventually says, a little weary, “It’s fine.”

“I never meant for you to see that.”

“Of course.”

“I meant to erase it.”

“I’m sure you did.”

She’s tense, dismissive, clearly eager to drop the subject, but Link, seized by an inexplicable need to explain himself, blindly soldiers on. “I was half-asleep, and it was morning—”

“Link,” Zelda interrupts him, sounding pained. “Please.”

Link looks down at his half-eaten food, appetite dwindling despite the gnawing pit in his stomach, recalling with fondness the time when he seldom spoke and and weighing the benefits of never speaking ever again. When he raises his head, he finds Zelda looking straight at him.

She takes a breath. “We don’t need to talk about it,” she says.

Link bobs his head. “Right. Totally.”

Zelda nods too. “Great. Good.”

She gives him a tight smile, and Link swears for a moment her eyes flicker below his waistline, but then she clears her throat and stands, dusting off her backside. “Well, I’m going to bed.”

Link raises a hand in silent farewell, but she’s already disappeared into the tent. He lowers his eyes to stare at his plate, exhaling a long breath, feeling the dread settle in. He fucked up. He fucked up _bad_. His palms are starting to itch again.

He stays up all night baking pies.

* * *

They have pumpkin pie for breakfast before they start moving upriver, and they don’t talk about it.

Zelda singlehandedly fills the silence between them, speaking rapidly and constantly though she seldom meets his eyes. By mid-afternoon she apparently runs out of things to talk about, however, and suggests that they collect mushrooms for dinner instead, thankfully allowing some space between them as they scavenge for fungi on the forest floor.

It’s an unfortunate coincidence that finds them reaching for the same unusually phallic sunshroom at the same moment, and after a _very_ long pause, Zelda merely hands him her stash and wordlessly walks away.

Link is halfway through preparing a risotto when she reappears.

“I think we do need to talk about it,” she says.

He pauses in the act of adding the sliced mushrooms to the cooking pot. He can’t imagine how talking about this could possibly make it better, but he says, “Okay.”

“I have some questions.”

Link swallows, thinking, _here we go_. “Okay,” he says again.

Zelda takes a seat, picking lint off her trousers in lieu of looking at him. “What exactly compelled you to… memorialize that moment?”

Link feels the flush creep up his neck as he turns back to the fire. “It seemed… a harmless enough idea, at the time,” he says. He wants to launch into further explanation—he had no ulterior motives, he never meant for her to see it, he isn’t some kind of sexual deviant, he _swears_ —but instead he finishes, lamely, “And the lighting was nice.”

In his periphery he sees her looking at him incredulously. “You immortalised a memory of your genitals because the _lighting_ was nice?”

Link feels the tips of his ears burn. It somehow sounds so much worse when she uses the proper terminology. “It seemed easier than commissioning a portrait,” he mumbles.

Zelda snorts.

Link looks at her in surprise. She’s laughing softly, her hand covering her mouth, the sound musical and genuine and it makes him warm all over. A subtle blush still decorates her cheeks, but she lowers her hand and smiles up at him. “You’re such a _boy_ , you know that?”

With her laughter and teasing, the iciness and tension of the last day seems to melt somewhat, and Link shrugs, trying to hide his smile. He has never minded her gentle goading, always taking it as a sign that she’s comfortable with him, and sure enough, she shifts closer to the fire to watch him cook.

“Did it ever occur to you what Purah might have done to you had she stumbled across it?” she presses.

Link winces. “I know.”

“An ancient Sheikah artefact, perhaps the only one of its kind in existence, and you used it to—”

“I’m not _proud_ of it.”

“Evidently you were at least a _little_ proud of it,” Zelda teases.

“It was _morning,_ ” Link says, feeling himself turning red again. He coughs evasively. “Food’s almost ready.”

Still grinning, Zelda stands, and she reaches out and puts her hand on his arm, giving his bicep a reassuring squeeze. She lingers a moment, just the weight of her hand more of a comfort than she’ll ever know. _You’re fine,_ it says. _Yo_ _u didn’t fuck up, you didn’t ruin it—_ and then she goes to fetch plates.

His arm feels oddly cold.

* * *

“Do they all look like that?”

Link pauses, but doesn’t look up from where he’s elbow-deep in the river, cleaning his tunic. Zelda prefers to do her own laundry—going red and muttering something about _delicates_ and _personals_ when he offered to clean her things the first time—but she’s currently sitting on the grass by the riverbank to keep him company as he washes his clothes, leaning against a tree with her journal in her lap.

When he doesn’t respond immediately, Zelda taps her graphite against her open page. “All of my knowledge about male anatomy comes from medical texts and what I managed to glean from eavesdropping on the ladies in the castle,” she says plainly. “So. Do they all look like that?”

Link takes a long breath in through his nose. He forces his arms to start working again, fighting the sudden impulse to just drop the tunic and run. When she said she had some questions, he hadn’t expected _this—_ but he recalls seeing more than enough of his fellow knights to discern: “More or less.”

Link hears her writing something down. “Interesting.”

He turns to look at her, eyebrows raised, and apparently she feels his questioning gaze because she elaborates, “The diagrams I’ve studied were more technical than artful. And the anecdotes I overheard didn’t exactly paint a clear picture.” She shrugs. “I expected something different, that’s all.”

It’s disconcerting to think that he’s the first she’s seen. He determinedly squashes down the twisted sense of pride at the thought. "Different?”

“More vascular,” Zelda says tactfully, and goes back to her scribbling.

Disinclined to follow that line of conversation, Link turns back to the river. He absentmindedly scrubs at his tunic, wondering how exactly his life has reached the point of doing his laundry while the Princess of Hyrule casually quizzes him on the diversity of male genitalia. He supposes it’s possible that this is all a dream. He considers sticking his head underwater to make sure.

Then Zelda asks, “Would you consider yourself well-endowed?”

Link almost swallows his tongue. “I’m _sorry?_ ”

“Please don’t take offense,” she says. “I have no point of reference, that’s all.” She waits for a moment, then prompts: “Would you say you’re average? Above average? Or perhaps below?”

Link doesn’t say anything. He simply kneels there, unmoving at the water’s edge, a white-knuckled grip on his soaked tunic and staring blankly into the middle distance, until he hears Zelda close her journal and stand. “Well, I’ll just go get the fire started, then,” she says, sounding a little miffed, and heads back to camp.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Link dunks his head in the river _._

* * *

Later—after he astutely ignores her when she questions his wet hair, after their hearty dinner of salmon meunière and they’re sitting quietly by the fire—Link clears his throat and says, “Average.”

Zelda hums thoughtfully and jots it down.

* * *

Since he can’t fully cleanse himself of his sins, Link tries the next best thing. 

With Zelda apparently content to be left to her own devices for a while, Link goes down to the river to bathe. He strips off at the water’s edge and wades in until he’s submerged to the chest, just standing there enjoying the solitude, the sounds of the wild, and the gentle pull of the current against his nether regions, then he takes a breath and goes under.

He emerges clean and refreshed ten minutes later, giving himself a cursory wipe-down before pulling on his briefs. He moves to the tree where Zelda sat yesterday, settling himself on the grass to towel-dry his hair—and that’s when Her Royal Highness herself strides up, Sheikah Slate in hand and a scowl on her face.

She says, “You erased it.”

Link looks up at her through his still-damp bangs, towel clutched against his chest. “… what?”

She brandishes the Slate at him. “You erased it,” she says again.

Link blinks at her, perplexed. “Of course I—why would I—” He feels a sudden clench of heat in his insides. “Why were you _looking_ for it?”

Zelda opens her mouth, probably to say something indignant, but she closes it again and then, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed. She looks at the ground, appearing to collect her thoughts, then up at him again, still flushed but clearly determined. “I only got a glimpse the first time,” she says, “and I was just curious—I’m just trying to understand—”

She cuts herself off, then shrugs elaborately and says, “What did you mean by ‘it was morning’?”

Link gives her a blank look.

She huffs, annoyed at his silence. “You made a point to mention it— _twice—_ so I assume it’s significant. What does it mean?”

Link takes a long breath and casts his eyes skyward. Is the Goddess still testing him? Has he not suffered enough in this lifetime? Was killing the Calamity not enough—now he has to explain morning wood to the Princess of Hyrule?

He lowers his gaze to find Zelda still looking down at him expectantly, one hand on her hip, and Link sighs wearily and gives a fond farewell to his dignity. “It just meant—that’s why I was—” He makes a lewd hand gesture that he instantly regrets. “I woke up with it, that’s all.”

Zelda frowns. "You woke up with—" then her eyebrows shoot up in understanding. "Oh,” she says.

Then she drops to her knees on the ground beside him. Link shrinks back against the tree, still clutching his towel, but she takes no notice as she sets the Sheikah Slate down and shuffles closer. She tilts her head at him thoughtfully, then asks, matter-of-fact, “Do you not need manual stimulation to achieve an erection?”

Link feels his soul take leave of his body.

He has to force himself to speak, staring at some fixed point above her head. “No, not—not always.”

“So it just happens on its own, sometimes?”

He nods weakly. “Sometimes.”

“When?”

“Just—sometimes.”

Zelda studies his face as she shifts closer, staring like he’s something novel and fascinating. When her hand suddenly touches his knee, it sends a tremor up his spine, the contact a _vivid_ reminder of how indisputably _undressed_ he is—but then that hardly seems like the most pressing issue when Zelda’s gaze migrates down his body and comes to rest between his legs.

Link doesn’t move.

He’s not sure he could if he wanted to, every muscle and nerve devoted to keeping still as her eyes burn through the towel still clasped in his lap. She looks up at him again, her expression curious and downright _dangerous_ , and asks, “What about now?

His heart is beating so loudly he’s almost sure she can hear it, and Link manages a shuddering inhale and thinks, _Hylia save him_ , if she just says _manual stimulation_ again—

“Maybe,” he says.

Then they just… look at each other. For ten agonising seconds, during all of which Link is thinking that he’s going to have to cart himself off to the Shrine of Resurrection so he can sleep for another hundred years and wake up with no memory of this, but then he feels the weight and warmth of Zelda’s hand move from his knee to his thigh and she says, “Can I see?”

A faint blush is spread across her cheeks, her expression open and earnest and it sends all of Link’s blood rushing south. His mouth is dry, his eyes locked on hers as he slowly removes the towel from his lap. Her gaze falls to watch as his thumbs slip beneath his waistband, and Link holds his breath and gauges her reaction as he lifts his hips and…

“Oh,” Zelda says.

Link allows his hands to fall limply to the grass and stares straight ahead. He can’t possibly look at her anymore; he’s already half-hard, but so much heat is rushing to his face instead he’s honestly not sure he can get much harder.

"Hmm,” Zelda murmurs. “It’s… different.”

“The water was cold,” Link says defensively.

But then her hand moves further up his leg and he thinks he probably should have stayed in the river just a little bit longer because this could get  _very_ embarrassing  _very_ quickly and Zelda definitely hears the hitch in his breathing because she says, “Can I…?”

Link can’t speak, so he just nods.

She’s curious and unhurried, more exploratory than deliberately erotic, but Link hasn’t taken his hands to himself in _weeks_ so he has to close his eyes and bite back a moan at the first tentative brush of her fingertips. She examines him gradually, murmuring with interest until he’s standing at full attention, and when the pad of her thumb delicately runs over the sensitive ridge on his underside, Link’s hips flinch up and his eyes snap open.

He grabs her wrist to still her movements. She’s breathing almost as hard as he is. He can imagine just how desperate and dishevelled he looks, gazing up at her from beneath heavy eyelids, his vision a little hazy and voice hoarse when he speaks. “You don’t have to.”

Zelda takes her hands from him, her eyes searching his face, but then her expression turns suddenly determined and she—

She rises onto her knees and swings one leg over his lap.

And sits, settling her slight weight on his thighs. Link watches in a daze as she discards her gloves and reaches down between them.

“I want to,” she tells him. “Show me how.”

He’s hot and lightheaded, dizzy and aching to be touched, and he can hardly believe his own daring as he takes her hand and guides her. “Here,” he mumbles, wrapping her fingers around him, about two thirds up. “A little tighter, and then just—”

Her hand moves and Link’s head falls back against the tree.

She’s still gentle, hesitant because she’s inexperienced, but the warmth and softness of her hand is such a contrast to his own calloused palms that Link already knows this is going to be over very quickly. She coasts steadily along the length of him, his own hands suddenly on her hips so he can roll up into her grip—and he knows he should be embarrassed by the pathetic whining noises he’s making, but one hundred years of celibacy has his stamina in shambles and then her thumb swipes over _that spot_ again and Link says, “ _Fuck_.”

“Fascinating,” Zelda says breathlessly, and Link tries to laugh but it melts into a moan.

Soon he’s trembling beneath her, hands clutching her blouse, his abdomen clenching and throat going tight as she works at him with her hand. Her breathing is slightly laboured as she strokes him, her other palm pressed warmly against his chest to steady herself because Link can’t seem to keep still, and she’s frowning in concentration, a tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows, and it suddenly hits him all in a rush just how _badly_ he wants her—how _long_ he’s wanted her—and his hips stutter and his voice breaks.

“Faster,” he chokes.

She complies.

He begs, “Don’t stop.”

She doesn’t.

“ _Zelda_ ,” he breathes, and when he looks at her she’s watching him and she’s beautiful and flushed and perfect so Link pushes his hand into her hair and pulls her in close. He leans forward and sets his mouth to hers—not kissing her, just gasping open-mouthed against her lips, just wanting her there so he can feel her words and breathe her in.

“That’s it,” she’s whispering, “that’s it, _yes—_ ”

Link comes shuddering, moaning against her mouth, and he feels more than he hears Zelda’s gasp as he does. His whole body moves, surging up, his hand closing over hers as she strokes him through it, gradually guiding her to slow as he whimpers with his release and liquid warmth spills over them both.

Then they’re still again, breathing hard, their foreheads bent together.

It takes Link a moment to come back to himself, then he draws back and reaches sheepishly for his discarded towel. He gingerly prises Zelda’s fingers from him, thoroughly cleaning her hand before he wipes off his own and starts on the mess on his belly.

“Well, that—that was…” He swallows, head bowed. “Thank you? I mean, I don’t know—was that okay? Are you okay? Is this—”

“Link,” Zelda says, and when he looks up, she leans in and kisses him.

He feels her fingers lightly curling over his jaw, soft and tentative and everything he never knew he wanted, so Link leans up and melts into it, tilting his head to chase her. She lets out a fluttering, breathy noise against his mouth, cradling his face in both hands to draw him in closer, and then they’re seamless, lips moving against each other in a slow push and pull, Link moaning low in his chest when she shifts in his lap, desperate to _taste_ , to feel _more_.

He’s beginning to question his previous perceptions about his refractory period when Zelda breaks the kiss with a gasp. Link barely has a second to try to decipher her expression before she scrambles off of him and stands up. 

“Well,” she says, slightly breathless, stepping back to dust off her trousers. She stoops to pick up the Sheikah Slate and her gloves, still pink in the face. “This was very enlightening, thank you.”

Link, still sitting on the ground with his briefs around his knees, says, a little bewildered, “You’re welcome?”

“I’m sorry I interrupted you,” Zelda continues, not looking at him as she turns toward the direction of the campsite. “I should—yes, I’ll just—”

She takes two steps and stops. 

She seems lost in thought. When she turns back to face him, her blush is slightly more pronounced, but her gaze is sharp and steady and it drives all the air from his lungs. 

“I’m not sure how familiar you are with female anatomy,” Zelda says evenly. “But if you have any interest in a practical lesson, I’d be happy to guide you.” 

And she walks away.

Link watches her go, eyes fixed on the slight sway of her hips, before he adjusts his briefs and drags himself off the ground. He’s shaking a little as he slowly gathers his clothing, her words gradually sinking into his climax-addled brain until he very suddenly realises exactly what she was implying. 

He pulls on his pants and runs back to camp as fast as his legs can take him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (in which Link demonstrates his anatomical expertise)

Link very narrowly avoids a knee to the ribs as they go sprawling into the tent.

He had essentially collided with Zelda the moment he reached the campsite, and he’s breathing hard as they hit the ground. She blinks up at him, probably a little taken aback by his hasty approach—or maybe just amused by his half-dressed, dishevelled appearance—but otherwise seems unsurprised to see him. She looks up at him expectantly, his hands planted either side of her torso, and it occurs to Link that he hadn’t exactly planned on what he might do once he got this far.

“So, that—that thing you said,” he says, a little wildly, before he loses his nerve. “Did you mean—like,  _now_? Is now a good time?”

Zelda gives him a blank look, and for a single, terrifying moment, Link worries that he’s severely misread her intentions, but then she reaches up to thread her fingers into his hair and drags him down into a kiss.

It’s completely different this time, less tentative and unsure, with every touch amplified by the pressing fact that he’s on top of her with very little space between them. Link can’t help moaning at the warm press of her tongue, can’t help the shudder that runs up his spine as she pulls him down to close the distance between their bodies—and that’s when Zelda makes an impatient noise and swings one leg up and over his hip, rolling them over with surprising strength until he’s flat on his back with her sitting astride him.

“So,” Zelda says, tone conversational despite the intensity of her blush. “How much  _do_  you know about female anatomy?”

“Uh,” Link says eloquently, watching as she reaches up to pluck the barrettes from her hair. The weight of her in his lap is proving rather distracting. “A little, I guess?”

“You  _guess_ ,” she says, not sounding convinced, running her fingers through her braids to undo them. “Do you know what the clitoris is?”

Link’s head spins. “I, uh—yes?”

She’s undoing the little buttons on her blouse now, loosening the cuffs and collar. “Do you know  _where_  it is?”

“Yes,” he says again.

“Good,” she says brightly, and grasps the hem of her shirt. “That will make this much easier.”

She pulls her blouse over her head, revealing a simple cream-coloured bustier with straps over her shoulders and laces up the front. Link is instantly transfixed, immediately understanding her previous reservations about him doing her laundry—but when she begins to undo the ties, the bodice slipping just enough that her nipples appear over the neckline, Link sucks in a harsh breath and pointedly looks away.

Zelda shrinks back a little, noticing his discomfort. “I’m sorry, do you not want—?”

“No, I do,” Link says quickly, eyes still fixed on the low canvas ceiling of the tent. “I  _definitely_  do. I just—I wasn’t expecting—”

“What?” Zelda leans over him so that she’s back in his line of sight, smiling a little when his gaze flickers downwards. “Did you think I’d just draw you a diagram and call it a day?”

He splutters a little. “Maybe?”

She laughs at that, a high, fluttering sound, and leans down to bring their lips together again.

Link lets her take the lead and just kisses her mindlessly while his hands wander up her thighs. He steels himself as his hand drifts up her hip to rest on the bare strip of skin on her flank, and Zelda makes an encouraging noise when she feels him do it, her hands fumbling between them to unlace her bodice entirely. She shrugs it off without breaking contact, Link’s breath catching as her nipples graze his chest, and when she rolls her hips down he moans so loudly he actually hears birds scattering outside the tent.

Zelda sits up in surprise, both at the noise and what she’s inadvertently just rubbed up against.

“Really?” she asks, glancing down between them, and Link knows he should probably be embarrassed, but she’s also completely bare from the waist-up and if he doesn’t touch her  _right now_  he’s going to lose his mind.

“Gods, fuck,” he chokes, following her up, and draws his hand all the way up her spine to fist in her hair, tilting her head so he can lean in and seal his lips over the pulse point beneath her ear. She whimpers quietly, pushing closer so that her chest is flush to his, and the sheer sensation of skin on skin is so maddening he can’t even concentrate on coaxing those noises out of her anymore. “Zelda—I want to—I want—”

“Yes, okay,” she says immediately, a little breathless. “Get on top of me.”

Link does as he’s told, flipping them so that she’s pressed to the bedroll instead, but then he’s drawing a blank because he has the Princess of Hyrule topless and spread out beneath him and there’s so much skin available he can’t decide where he wants to put his mouth. Zelda thankfully chooses for him, pulling his head down against her neck, and he quickly catches on, kissing down her throat and across her collarbones, then skims his lips over the swell of one breast and lets his tongue drag over the peak.

She arches up against him, fingernails scraping against his scalp. “Oh, that’s— _yes_.”

Link tries to hum in agreement, but it comes out more like a whine. He brings one shaking hand up to grasp her neglected breast, swirling his tongue over her nipple again, and Zelda  _moans_ , then, her head falling back, the sound going straight to his groin.  

“Wait, wait,” she says, sounding about as desperate as he feels. She squirms beneath him a little—Link vaguely hears twin thuds from behind him and registers that she’s just kicked off her boots—then she roughly pushes him off. He mourns the loss of contact right up until her hands move to the fastenings on her trousers.

“Oh,” Link says weakly, sitting back and watching as she lifts her hips and pushes her riding pants down to her thighs. Her underwear is the same colour as her bustier; the knowledge that she wears matching underthings makes something dislodge in the pit of his stomach. “You’re just—are you sure? We don’t have to—”

“Link,” Zelda interrupts, exasperated. “Don’t pretend this was your idea.”

Link shuts his mouth and helps peel her trousers down her calves.

He’s a little lightheaded at the new expanse of skin, and he isn’t quite sure where to look as she tentatively spreads her legs. There’s a wet spot on her underwear; Link actually has to take a moment and do some deep breathing when he sees it—because  _he_  did that, he did that to her—pressing the heel of his hand against his groin because there’s suddenly a very real possibility that he might make a mess of himself before he even gets close enough for a taste.

“Are you okay?” Zelda asks softly.

Her voice is shaking. It occurs to Link that she’s probably just as nervous as he is, and it makes him feel a little less like he’s drowning. He nods, dropping his head down to rest his cheek against her knee, and she gives him a small smile. “Do you need some directions?”

Link laughs a little at that, tilting his head to press a kiss to the inside of her knee. Then he just… lets the momentum carry him down, his lips dragging slowly along her inner thigh, feeling tremors and goosebumps along the way as he closes the distance and settles at the apex of her legs. When he kisses her, softly, right at the edge of her underwear, Zelda makes a quiet, breathy noise in response, so he does it again, closer, open mouthed and  _hot_ , his tongue teasing along the seam of the fabric and teeth barely scraping her skin.

She whispers, “Yes.”

He’s trembling harder than she is as he draws her leg over his shoulder, and she’s quiet again as he explores her, breath fluttering and fingers weaving into his hair as he works between her thighs. He uses his tongue, licking a slow, wide line over damp cloth, and she pushes back with a gasp, so Link keeps going—intoxicated by the taste of her and chasing the prospect of her making more noise. He nuzzles closer, her hips flinching up when his nose brushes a spot that’s swollen and firm, so he finds it again with his mouth, licks and sucks her through her underwear until she’s moaning and writhing and the fabric is soaked from them both.

Link surfaces for air, relishing in her protesting whine. He’s so turned on he can barely  _breathe,_ he wants her to come so badly. He asks, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Zelda chokes, pushing his head down again. “Gods, Link— _please_.”

He’s too impatient to take off her underwear. He uses his thumb to pull them aside—the last scrap of fabric separating him from her—and when he finally,  _finally_  sets his mouth against her, she lets out a noise that’s close to a sob.

Link is shaking as he licks her, swallowing back moans as he spreads her open with his tongue. He can’t seem to keep quiet—mindless, desperate noises pouring out of him as her hands fist tight in his hair, and every time she pulls and tugs it only makes him louder. She’s keening and gasping, rising up a little to meet him and hot under his mouth, and when she starts fucking his face, incapable of keeping still, Link doesn’t even pause for breath—just closes his eyes and buries himself against her, flattens his tongue and lets her grind.

“Don’t stop,” Zelda says suddenly, voice right on the edge of pleading. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,  _don’t stop—_ ”

He feels her orgasm more than he hears it—the way her body goes tight, shuddering and arching, her moan vibrating down his spine. Link sucks her, slowly, in time with the pulse of it, drags it out long enough that her legs start to shake, and as it ebbs away she says his name, soft like a breath or a sigh on her lips.

She’s boneless and panting afterwards, fingers losing their grip on his hair. His head is aching a little but it’s in the best possible way, and he barely waits for her breathing to slow before he starts to lick her again.

Zelda squirms beneath him. “Wait, wait—it’s sensitive.”

Link mouths at the juncture of her thigh instead, tasting the salt of her sweat that’s gathered there, and it makes him groan. “Gods, I just—” his voice breaks, nuzzling against her again. “You taste so  _good_.”

He licks all the way inside her, pushed up so close he can feel it when she moans. She’s all over his face but he doesn’t care—he could drown in the way she tastes—and when he drags his tongue over her again her whole body moves with it, her cry caught somewhere been pleasure and agony as she tugs fitfully at his hair.

“Link,” Zelda says, a little breathless, and he’s about to draw away and apologise when she says, “Just—fingers.”

His vision swims a little from the sudden rush of blood to the head. “You want—?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Link keeps close as he wets his fingers, stroking her with excruciating slowness. Zelda makes this  _sound_  as he does it, high and impatient, but when he sinks two digits inside her it melts into a moan. She’s slick and tight and  _impossibly_ hot, whining brokenly as she rocks her body against his hand, and for a moment he imagines it—what it might be like, buried in that heat—and he loses his breath all over again.

He swallows thickly, shifting a little for a better angle, still close enough that his mouth ghosts over her. “What can I do?”

She spreads her legs wider for him, drawing in a shuddering breath. “Just—down a little—there’s a spot—”

Link knows it; he curls his fingers, searching, and Zelda responds almost immediately, hips rising up with a soft cry. His heart jumps to his throat, her hands slipping from his hair as he raises his head to watch her. “Here?”

She keens when he does it again, hands fisting in the bedroll above her head. “ _Yes_.”

He sits up properly to kneel between her thighs, and watches, fascinated, as his fingers disappear inside her. She looks incredible like this—all golden hair and perfect skin, muscles tensing and chest heaving as her body rolls against the gentle push-pull of his wrist. Her nipples are peaked and she’s shining wet and spread so prettily around his fingers that Link can’t help the rough, animalistic noise that escapes him, can’t help snaking his free hand over the front of his pants, rubbing himself through layers of fabric just to relieve some of the pressure that’s settled between his legs.

Zelda makes a strangled noise when she looks at him. “ _Link—_ ”

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “you’re just—I can’t—”

“No, I want you to—I want—” She jerks involuntarily when he twists his fingers. “ _Fuck_.”

Link removes his hand from himself and curls it over her hip instead, hastening his movements and doubling his efforts, Zelda arching off the bedroll and gasping every time he pushes inside her. She’s writhing again, the heat and urgency between them nearly unbearable, and when she whines desperately and grasps one of her untouched breasts, something fractures inside him—moaning so brokenly it almost sounds like a sob when he says, “I want you to  _come._ ”

And she does.

Louder, this time, her head thrown back, crying out until her voice breaks, tight and pulsing around his fingers. Link can barely breathe as he coaxes the last of it out of her, until she’s twitching against his hand, hypersensitive and whimpering, and he’s barely withdrawn from her when Zelda sits up and reaches for him, hands shaking but eager, to unfasten his trousers.

“Now you,” she says breathlessly, all in a rush. “Your turn.”

Link doesn’t fight her, just rises up onto his knees so she can work his pants down, but he groans a little when she pulls him out of his briefs; he’s so hard, so sensitive, it’s actually close to painful, and he has to brush her hands away.

“No—here, let me,” he tells her, and barely has his fingers fully wrapped around himself when a jolt of heat shoots down his spine. “Fuck,” he chokes, “ _fuck_ —how should I—where—”

“Here,” she says immediately, and she shakes back her hair and pushes out her chest, and Link doesn’t even question it, he can’t even  _think—_ he just braces himself over her with an agonised groan, stroking himself roughly, frantically, until he’s gasping and shuddering and coming  _again,_  Zelda staring up at him with bright, imploring eyes as he thrusts into his fist and the climax tears through his body.

He’s still trembling above her as Zelda lies back, peering down at the mess on her belly and chest. Link can’t move—he’s so shocked at his own audacity he can’t even speak, just staring down at her with his erection softening in his hand until she notices his bewildered expression and lets out a quiet laugh.

“Come on,” she says, patting his hip. “Lie down.”

He rolls off of her and settles beside her on the bedroll, his trousers still around his thighs. For a while they just lie there, in varying states of undress, staring up at the canvas and letting their heavy breaths fill the silence. Link is the first one to break it.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Zelda laughs again, short and breathless. “Yes.”

“You swore.”

“I did,” she agrees. “You’re a bad influence on me.”

Link looks over at her. It’s sunset now, the light in the tent growing dimmer, but he doesn’t miss how her eyes are bright and her face is still flushed from her climax. As he watches her, she turns towards him and gives him a warm smile.

“That was  _fun_ ,” she says.

Chest tight with something like joy or relief, Link turns to his side and shifts up close to kiss her. She makes a quiet, contented noise against his mouth, fingers threading into his hair; it’s easy and languid, no real purpose other than  _feeling_ , but when her lips part beneath his, allowing his tongue to push into her mouth, Link feels his blood run hot again.

He’s entertaining the thought of climbing on top of her when he accidentally rests his forearm in the mess on her chest. They break apart, Zelda wincing a little on his behalf. Link gingerly wipes his arm on his trousers.

“Sorry,” he says, laying back again. “About—you know. That.”  

“It’s fine.” She glances down at herself again. “There seems to be less of it than last time.”

Link shrugs. He can’t even bother to be embarrassed anymore. “I guess.”

“Is that normal? If you ejaculate multiple times in a day?”

“Pretty much.”

She hums thoughtfully, gaze still fixed on the mess on her abdomen, and before Link can say or do anything, she dips a fingertip into it and puts it in her mouth. He lies there, speechless, as Zelda pensively runs her tongue over her teeth, and she shrugs when she notices him staring.

“Research, for next time,” she explains, adjusting her underwear as she sits up. “I was expecting worse, honestly.”

Link sits up too, pulling up his pants a little numbly, still processing in silence as Zelda gathers her clothing.

“I’m going to wash up,” she informs him, pulling her trousers back on. “And it’s getting late, so we should probably start dinner when I get back. Something quick, I think—omelets, maybe.”

She kisses him again—chastely, so brief he doesn’t have a chance to respond—and leaves without another word.

Link watches her go, eyes fixed on her still-bare back as she heads towards the river, her hair glinting gold in the light of the dying sun. He drags a shaking hand over his face, then lets out a breathless laugh, sprawling onto his back again to stare up at the ceiling.

He says, weakly, “ _Next time_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave up on any semblance of plot for this part, so I'll be doing a part 3 in order to bring this story full-circle. Thanks for all the love!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (in which Link has some reservations)

****Two days later, Zelda pins him against a tree.

It’s late morning and Link is down by the river again, filling his waterskin before they begin the next leg of their journey. They had overslept, and were leaving their departure later than he would have liked, but it was more than worth it, waking up next to her—curled up on the same bedroll with their limbs tangled together, touching skin-to-skin at every point, her hair golden and tousled in the morning light that filters in through the canvas and peppering soft, drowsy kisses down his neck as she stirs herself from sleep.

She’s wide awake now, though, and kissing him filthily as she pushes her knee between his legs. Link drops the waterskin and utilizes both hands to pull her closer against him, cupping her jaw to tilt her head the way he likes, the other arm wrapping around her to draw her in at the waist. She sighs against his mouth, her thigh pressing up against him, and _that_ along with the vivid awareness of her hands sliding down the front of his tunic is almost enough to distract him from the looming threat of the weather causing them further delays. Almost.

“We should get going,” Link murmurs, between kisses. “It looks like it might rain, and we’re headed up a mountain—”

“Oh, hush,” Zelda says dismissively, and sinks to her knees.

Link freezes, then, because this is new. True, he’s already brought her to climax with his hands or mouth so many times he’s beginning to lose count, and she’s always been eager to reciprocate one way or another—but not like this. This feels… dirty. Almost pornographic. Vulgar bordering on obscene.

“You don’t need to do that,” Link says, losing his voice a little as she palms him over his trousers, but she ignores him and pushes up his tunic to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his hipbone. He feels her grin when his breath hitches, and then she pulls away to work at his belt.

“I’d like to try,” she tells him as she gets his trousers open, pulling them down to mid-thigh. “You do it for me—it’s only fair. Hold this, will you?”

She’s pushing his tunic and undershirt up over his abdomen; Link automatically takes the material from her, hand closed into a fist at the base of his sternum to hold it there.

“This is—this is different,” he says, even as his undershorts go the way of his trousers. A sudden rush of heat shoots through him at the appreciative gaze Zelda levels at his crotch, and he twitches a little as she takes him into her hand.

“Different how?” she asks, gently beginning to stroke him to full attention.

“Because,” Link tries, resolve melting with every pass of her fist. “It’ll be messy.”

“I know that,” she says.

“It doesn’t taste good.”

“It was fine the last time I tried it.”

He sucks in a sharp breath at the memory. “Yes, but—not when—not like _this_.”

Zelda quirks an eyebrow, and Link is about to insist, _no, seriously, it doesn’t,_ but then she leans in and _licks_ him—a long, wet stroke along the underside, from the base of him right to the tip—and the noise he makes is _pathetic_. She glances up at him, looking thoroughly pleased with herself, and waits until he swallows and nods his assent before shuffling forward again, settling more comfortably onto the ground.

“You’ll have to tell me what to do,” she says.

“Right,” Link says weakly, fingers tentatively weaving into her hair.

“Don’t mess up my braids,” she adds, and takes him into her mouth.

He murmurs instructions whenever she needs them, little things like _use your hand_ and _watch your teeth_ , but otherwise he lets her figure it out on her own. She’s cautious, a little clumsy, and it’s far from perfect but it’s _Zelda_ —Zelda on her knees, Zelda watching him carefully through her lashes, Zelda swirling her tongue inexpertly around him and humming when he moans—and it isn’t long at all before she’s found herself a rhythm, her hand and mouth falling into sync, Link’s hips quivering and abdomen tense with the orgasm building low in his belly.

When he chokes out a warning, she just carries on.

“Stop,” he rasps. “Zelda _,_ seriously— _stop_.”

Zelda makes a noise, dissenting and impatient, and her eyes flutter closed as she takes him as deep as she can go. It takes all of Link’s self-control not to drag her in closer, his hand releasing her hair to push back his own—but when she opens her eyes and looks up at him again it makes something snap, makes his head fall back and his hips jerk up, needy little sounds catching in his throat as she lets him come in her mouth.

He sinks against the tree when he’s done, out of breath and so blissed out he can’t even find it in him to feel remorseful when Zelda pulls off with a grimace and spits on the grass.

“Told you,” he says, a little dazed, as she snatches up his discarded waterskin. She casts him a glare as she takes a long drink, making a hand gesture that she could only have learned from him, and Link can’t help but laugh.

Zelda fixes her hair and refills the waterskin as he readjusts his clothing, and they head back up to the campsite. She takes his hand somewhere along the way; Link is completely enthralled by it somehow—her fingers laced through his, the warmth of her palm through the leather of his glove, heat spreading through his chest and belly and tingling all the way down to his toes.

He doesn’t release her when they reach the top of the hill, holding fast when she tries to pull away. She looks amused as he draws her in close, and he can feel her smile when he brings their lips together again, leaning into him easily as he kisses her, their clasped hands caught between them with her knuckles pressed to his ribs, and he’s breathless again by the time they break apart.

“Sorry,” Link says, because he thinks he should, wondering if she can feel how hard his heart is beating. “About—you know. In your mouth.”

Zelda flashes him a wide smile. “It’s okay,” she says, and gives his hand a brief squeeze before letting go. “Eat more fresh fruit. I’ll get used to it.”

She walks away to pack up the last of their things. Link stares after her, red-faced and incredulous, probably ready to go another round if they didn’t have a mountain to climb.

* * *

 “How do you feel about sexual intercourse?”

Zelda is presently half-dangling off the edge of a cliff, so her voice is slightly muffled by the wind. She’s gathering a cluster of flowers she’d excitedly spotted on the way up, and Link—kneeling behind her, his fingers tucked into her belt as a precaution—takes a moment to digest the question. He had been thoroughly enjoying the view of her bent over like this, but now he’s especially glad that she’s facing away from him and unable to see the flush crawling up his neck.

“Pretty good, I guess,” he says.

Zelda goes motionless for a moment, and he gets the feeling that she’s reading much further into that statement than the average person would. When she starts to straighten up, Link tugs at the back of her belt until she’s cleared the cliff edge and properly seated on the ground, clutching a handful of plants. She pulls out a handkerchief and begins separating the buds from the stems.

Link thinks—almost hopes—that’s the end of it, until she says, “So you’ve done it, then.”

It isn’t a question, and his stomach twists unpleasantly. He watches her work for a while before speaking. “Does that bother you?”

Zelda looks up at him, then, her eyes searching his face for a long moment before returning her gaze to her herbs. “I mean, I assumed you had,” she says. “Because you’re very good, you know, with your hands—and your mouth. I imagine that comes with practice.” She glances up at him again and gives him a small smile. “But no, it doesn’t bother me.”

Link ducks his head to hide his reddening face. He’s a little lost as of what to say, unsure whether he should apologize or reassure her somehow—or even if such a transgression requires an apology at all, considering the offense occurred over a century ago—but Zelda spares him the trouble of puzzling out a response by abruptly holding out one of the plants.

“Do you know what this is?” she asks.

Link studies it. “Armoranth, right?”

Zelda nods. She plucks the final bud and places it in her handkerchief with the others, folding it up carefully and tucking it away. Then she stands and scuffs up the dirt with her boot. “The seeds can be ground and boiled into an elixir,” she says. “As long as it’s taken consistently, it’s very effective at preventing conception.”

She drops the stems on the ground. Link watches numbly as she covers them with earth. “Conception,” he echoes.

“Yes,” Zelda affirms, not meeting his eyes, her cheeks tinged pink. “If I start tonight, it should take effect in a few days.”

She resumes the hike without him, leaving Link sitting heavily in the dirt and _reeling_. 

* * *

Zelda prepares the elixir when they stop to make camp.

Link makes dinner, watching her grind some of the tiny seeds in a mortar and pestle, but he ends up leaving her to it as she boils the water over the fire. She’s always been better at making elixirs than he is, and this feels private, somehow—personal and delicate. Once boiled, the brew is set aside and left to steep, and they sit together while they make short work of the meat and mushroom skewers, Link hyper-aware of the covered billycan sitting at Zelda’s feet.

After they eat, Zelda strains the ground seeds out of the liquid, apprehensively swirling the contents in a flask. Link doesn’t envy her as she drains it with a grimace.

He hands her the waterskin. “How is it?”

She takes a mouthful of water before she speaks. “Bitter,” she says eventually, running her tongue over her teeth in distaste. “Probably better than having to chew them, though, and this method has the least side effects.”

Link frowns in concern. “What kind of side effects?”

Zelda gestures vaguely below her waist. “Dryness.”

“Oh.” He watches her take another swig. “Where did you learn about all this?”

“I had some books on herbal medicine.” She plugs the cap on the waterskin and hands it back to him. “My tutors probably would have confiscated that particular one, had they known.”

Link huffs out a laugh, reaching over to set the waterskin down with the rest of their things, and Zelda leans into his side when he straightens up, closing the meager distance between them. He thinks about holding her hand again, ponders the irony of his anxiety to do so even after having spent the better part of two days with his face between her legs, and he’s still working up the nerve to put his arm around her shoulders when Zelda asks, “What’s it like?”

“Hm?”

“Sex. What’s it like?”

Link clears his throat awkwardly, feeling his face heating up. He had truly never expected to have this conversation with the Princess of Hyrule—but then he had never expected that he’d be spending most of his evenings with her legs wrapped around his neck, either. “It’s... good.”

“I assumed as much,” Zelda says, a little impatiently. “But what does it _feel_ like?”

“What—like, physically...?”

“Yes. I mean—” she swivels around to face him properly, expression curious and entirely unabashed. “It must be quite remarkable.”

“Um.” Link shifts uncomfortably, gaze fixed on the fire. “Well. It’s… warm.”

In his periphery, he sees Zelda give an encouraging nod. “And?”

“And, uh. Soft. And, you know—wet, I guess.” He flushes deeper and glances sideways at her. “Please don’t make me use more adjectives.”

Zelda laughs, and Link feels the tension in his neck and shoulders dissolve a little at the sound. The need to apologize still niggles at him slightly, but when she moves into his side again, pressing up close, he feels much more at ease. As she snakes her hand into his lap to lace their fingers together, Link thinks how odd it is—how they’ve been so much closer than this, and wearing so much less, but somehow it doesn’t quite compare to just this, the quiet intimacy of sitting together after sharing a meal, of feeling her contented sigh as she leans into him again.

“Link?” Zelda says softly.

“Yeah?”

“How is it… emotionally? How does it feel?”

Link takes a long breath, just absorbing the warmth of her body next to his. Tries not to think about how, if he held her close enough, listened hard enough, he might be able to hear the pulse of her heartbeat.

He says, “It feels like this.”

Zelda doesn’t move or speak for a moment, then she abruptly pulls her hand from his and stands. The absence of her body heat is so sudden that it’s like being plunged into a cold bath, but it’s nothing in comparison to the icy tendril of panic that roots itself in the pit of his stomach, certain that he’s offended her, that he’s fucked up, that he’s _ruined it—_

“Coming to bed?” she asks.

She offers her hand, and relief—warm and glowing and tentative—spreads through his chest. Link doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, so he just scrambles to his feet.

He takes her outstretched hand again and follows her into the tent.

* * *

“I was thinking,” Link says, a full day later, “maybe we should wait.”

They’re camped out overlooking Mount Rozudo for the night, in a quiet, wind-sheltered niche with a hot spring and a few trees. Zelda had taken her second dose of elixir during dinner—blithely informing him that she should be well-protected by the third—before they ventured into the spring to wash off the day’s exertion. It’s late evening now, the two of them taking full advantage of being clean and refreshed, sprawled out in the tent getting sweaty again.

At his words, Zelda, currently in the process of kissing her way down his torso, lifts her head to look at him. There’s a fairy in a bottle strung up on the ceiling support, casting a soft pink glow on her puzzled expression; Link realises how abrupt he must sound, but he’s been thinking about this all day—including the last hour when his mouth was otherwise occupied—and he has a tendency to lose his train of thought whenever she gets her hands on him, so.

“Until we reach an inn,” he clarifies. “Or even a stable—they have private rooms, sometimes.”

Zelda taps a fingertip against his hipbone. “Why?”

“It might—” he gasps here, because she’s firmly but gently cupped him right between his legs, but he pushes through it. “It might be nice.”

She gives him a _look_ , and Link deflates a little, turning his gaze to the ceiling, watching the fairy drift peacefully inside the bottle and wondering how he can adequately convey his concerns about deflowering the Princess of Hyrule on the floor of a tent in the middle of nowhere. Eventually, he relents, “You deserve a real bed.”

Zelda makes a thoughtful noise as she resumes her journey down his midsection. Link’s hips unconsciously flinch up when she wraps her hand around him, and he hears her laugh softly as she starts to stroke.

“We’re still bound for Hateno Village, aren’t we?” she asks.

“Yes,” Link replies, head already spinning.

“Don’t you have a house there?”

“Yes, but—”

“So I presume you have a bed.”

She presses a kiss to his lower belly, and Link allows himself to imagine it for a moment—carrying her upstairs, laying her down on a real mattress and pillows, on _his_ bed, in _his_ home—and is hit with an inexplicable surge of anxiety. “Is that what you want?”

Zelda pauses again, so close that Link can feel her breath on him. “I will have you wherever you consent to take me,” she says steadily, and when she closes her lips around him there’s not much else that he can say, so Link just threads his hands into her hair, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt at the back of his mind, and gives in to the heat of her mouth.

As they’re drifting off to sleep, Zelda commends him for his recent eating habits. Link turns pinker than the fairy hanging from the ceiling and buries his face against her neck.

* * *

A noticeable tension sets in after Zelda takes her third elixir.

They’ve just spent all day making their way down Meda Mountain, and have stopped for the night in a small forested area with a water source nearby. They would rejoin the road on Marblod Plain in the morning, and would reach Hateno by nightfall if they kept up a brisk walk, where they would then, presumably, consummate their… whatever this is.

Link has been worrying himself sick about it all day.

He’s currently in the middle of preparing a creamy vegetable soup for dinner in the hopes of settling his stomach; the anxious niggling had shifted to full-blown queasiness ever since the road ahead came into view. Zelda seems unconcerned as she does her own thing, busy making notes in her journal and browsing through the Sheikah Slate, the light from the screen reflected in her eyes an odd reminder of the night she had made the uncomfortable discovery that brought them to this point. It’s strange to think about; it feels like a lot of time has passed since the day she followed him down to the river. And yet somehow simultaneously very little time at all.

For a while there’s nothing but the bubbling of the cooking pot and the crackling of the fire, then Zelda says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Link swallows. Thinks, _here we go_. “About what?”

“About why you’re so nervous.”

When he doesn’t respond immediately, Zelda sets the Slate aside and stands to face him, and Link blows out a sigh, annoyed at his own transparency. Though _nervous_ doesn’t quite encompass the gravity of what he’s feeling, it’s... close enough. “Why would I not be?”

Zelda shrugs a little. “Because you’ve done it before.”

“Not in… a long time.” Link keeps his eyes fixed determinedly on the soup. “And not with you.”

“Are you afraid of hurting me?” she asks bluntly. “Link, I’ve been riding horses my entire life—”

“That’s—” he blanches a little, struck with a fresh wave of panic at the thought, but continues, “That’s not it.”

She takes a second to absorb this, then tentatively lays a hand on his arm. “Do you not want to have sex with me?”

Link closes his eyes. Breathes out, slowly, through his nose. “Of course I want to.”

Until now, these words have gone unspoken but implicit. This is the first time either of them have said it without the veil of euphemism, and Link feels the weight of the statement settle on them both as he lets his eyes open, gaze drifting skyward. “It’s just—” he gestures helplessly. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”

The silence feels somehow abrupt this time, Zelda’s touch suddenly heavy. Link forces himself to look at her, finding her staring at him, wide-eyed, expression so unreadable that for a moment he isn’t sure if she’s going to kiss him or hit him, but then she just gives an incredulous laugh.

“Too soon,” she says. “One hundred years and you think it’s _too soon_.”

The heat from her hand slowly crawls up his arm, spreading through his chest as her words sink in. There’s something soft and affectionate in her eyes and it hurts a little to look at, so Link just takes a shaky breath and leans in—not to kiss her, just touching his forehead to hers, closing his eyes again just to feel her there—finding her hand in the firelight and threading their fingers together.

“Did you still think this was some kind of practical anatomy lesson?” she murmurs.

Link allows himself a smile. “Maybe.”

He isn’t sure how long it is they stand there with their heads bent together, but eventually Zelda squeezes his hand and they step apart. They sit together to eat, bodies pressed close from shoulder to knee, and retire to the tent afterwards, stripped down to their underthings but too exhausted to do anything other than sleep.

Link wakes up in the night with Zelda curled up behind him, her arm thrown over his waist and her breath warming the back of his neck—and though the anxiety doesn’t completely recede, it does soften a little, if only slightly.  

* * *

They reach Hateno just as the sun has begun to set, and Link is on the verge of a meltdown.

His nausea had only increased in intensity the closer they got to the village, and even Zelda  becomes uncharacteristically quiet as they cross the bridge to the house. She dusts a little and comments on his interesting choices in home decor while Link makes dinner, and then they eat in relative silence, facing each other across the small dining table. Zelda rises first to clear their plates, and sets about preparing her elixir for the night, nonchalantly enquiring after a bath.

“Sure,” Link says, watching her strain the elixir into a flask. “Easy. No problem.”

He shows her the bathhouse and continues down to the pond to hyperventilate.

He spends an inordinate amount of time sitting in the water with his face in his hands, but eventually drags himself inside again. Zelda isn’t back yet, so he heads up to the loft to change into clean undershorts and light the lamp on the nightstand, haphazardly tidying the sleeping space and trying to control his breathing. He’s just replaced the linens and turned down the bed when he hears her footsteps on the stairs.

He turns around, to tell her that they don’t have to do this—they don’t even have to share a bed, they don’t have to do _anything_ if she’s changed her mind—but the words die in his throat.

It’s warm in the house but it seems stifling suddenly, the air in the loft grown heavy and hot as Zelda stands completely bare at the top of the stairs. She’s lightly flushed, hair damp and skin still dewy from her bath, and as Link meets her eyes, her gaze soft and open and vulnerable, it occurs to him that while he’s seen her without her clothes on before, he never thought he’d see her looking quite so _naked._

Zelda moves first, but they meet each other halfway.

There’s a quiet urgency about it when their lips come together, the way Zelda’s hands thread into his hair and Link pulls her in at the waist to close the distance. It’s like they’ve never kissed before, somehow, just the novelty of kissing her in this context making everything feel new, and while he’d vaguely registered stumbling towards the bed, it doesn’t properly dawn on him until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and Zelda pushes him down.

“Now?” he asks, breathless, as she climbs astride him.

“Now,” Zelda says, and brings their lips together again.  

Link has precisely zero objections to her being on top, and when she grinds down against his lap his toes actually curl. His hands are shaking but he can’t seem to stop touching her, and as he pulls her hips down to better push into the wetness he can already feel through his shorts, Zelda breaks the kiss with a gasp. She mumbles, “Off, take them off,” tugging at his waistband and rising up just enough to give him room, and then they’re gone, there’s nothing left to separate them, just warmth and skin and _her_.

She immediately rocks down, dragging herself wetly along the length of him, and Link almost loses it. “ _Fuck_.”

Zelda gives a fluttering laugh, straightening up slightly to watch him. She does it again, both of them shivering at the friction as she moves, her voice stuttering as she speaks. “It’s good, right?”

“Fuck,” Link repeats weakly, hands roaming mindlessly over her sides, barely grasping at the final shreds of his dignity. “Gods, Zelda—you have _no idea_.”

She leans down to kiss him again, still moving steadily against him all the while, and Link can only cling to her uselessly and groan against her mouth. She’s so slick and hot he could easily get off from this alone, but Zelda, not one for wasting time, quickly breaks the kiss and shifts back a little to reach down between them—and it’s somehow only then it hits him that this is _really_ happening.

“Wait, wait,” Link says, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. It may have been a while, and she may have rendered him completely inept, but he’s done this enough times to know she’s probably rushing it. “Let me—I should do something—”

“Unnecessary,” Zelda says, her palm planted on his chest to steady herself as she guides him to her. “Why do you think I was in the bath for so long?”

And there’s… absolutely nothing he can say to that, so Link just rests his hand on the curve of her hip and doesn’t take his eyes off her face. She sinks down on him slowly, inhaling sharply at the stretch, brows pinched together and eyes slipping closed, lowering herself until she’s flush against his lap and he’s completely buried inside her.

Link is barely breathing. He swallows thickly, fighting every instinct that’s telling him to move, and reaches up, trembling, to brush her hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

Zelda nods hastily. “Yes, I just—I didn’t account for—” she shifts a little and chokes on a breath, eyes snapping up to his face. “Just—show me, show me how.”

The warmth and closeness of being inside her is dizzying; Link feels lightheaded as he pushes himself up on one arm. “Like this,” he murmurs, snaking his free hand around her back to splay his fingers at the base of her spine. “Now, just—”

He gently encourages her to roll her hips forward, and her mouth goes slack. “ _Oh_.”

Link tries to laugh but it sticks in his throat. “Good?”

“ _Good_ ,” Zelda says, and starts to move.

There’s no words now—just quiet breaths amongst the soft shifting sounds of their bodies as they rock together in a slow grind. Her motions are still tentative, unhurried and unsure, but it’s close, and it’s easy, and it’s _her_ so it’s _perfect_ , and when Link rolls his hips up, searching for that spot inside her that makes her whine, her head falls back on a moan. He does it again and again, gasping open-mouthed against her throat, and though his movements are slight it’s apparently enough, because Zelda is already making those sharp, breathy noises that mean she’s almost there.

“Yes,” she whispers urgently, hands fisting in his hair, “almost—Gods, _Link_ — _hold me—_ ”

Link wraps both arms around her and buries his face against her neck, mindlessly murmuring encouragement as she comes apart around him. She holds him to her, keening softly into his ear as he moans and rocks them both through it, and though Link has felt her come before, he realises now he’s never known the true scope of it—how tight she becomes as she rides it out, lost to the pulse of climax and the rush of heat inside her.

He doesn’t release her as she gradually slows, breathing softly together as they still.

For a moment, all she can do is pant and tremble against his shoulder, but then she draws back to kiss him and everything speeds up again. Their mouths are hot and clumsy as Link falls back on the bed, wordless little whimpers spilling from their joined lips, and when he pulls her down against his body she makes this _sound_ —rising and desperate, so he rolls them until she’s pressed to the mattress, drawing her leg up high on his hip, and unthinkingly drives into her as deep as he can go.

Zelda lets out a strangled gasp, clutching his upper arms. “ _Link_.”

“Fuck, sorry—I’m sorry,” Link stutters, immediately shifting back, taking his weight off her and trying to withdraw—but she holds fast, crossing her ankles at his lower back to keep him there.

“No, no—stay,” she says quickly. “ _Stay_. I just need a minute.” 

They're still for a moment, both breathing hard, Zelda looking up at him while Link gazes down. He takes in her golden hair fanned out over the blankets, flushed and warm in the dim light of the loft with her chest still heaving from orgasm, and as she reaches up to brush the hair from his eyes something fractures inside him, burning like broken glass in his throat.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “For wanting to wait. I’m really glad we’re here.”

Link’s eyes flutter closed as his forehead falls against hers. He feels her palms move over his jaw, thumbs just tracing his cheeks, and he exhales slowly in relief. “Me too.”

He doesn’t move for a long time, just letting himself feel the gentle pulse of her body and how her hands cradle his face, but then Zelda tilts her hips, shifting enticingly against him _,_ and Link sucks in a breath, hyper-aware of the contact. “Do you—do you want to keep going?”

“Yes,” she whispers, and threads her hands into his hair to pull him down against her. “Please, _yes_.”

Link starts controlled, rocking into her slowly, feeling it in every nerve whenever she tightens and flexes. She moves with him, arching when he pulls her hips up to push into that spot, and he chases her lips to taste every whimper and whine, moaning desperately against her mouth as his resolve begins to slip. He wants to kiss her for longer but he keeps losing his breath, so he draws back to watch her—to see the tendons going tight in her neck, the light sheen of exertion decorating her chest, and when Zelda meets his eyes again there’s something _wild_ there, hotter than the sting of her nails against his scalp as she drags him down by the hair, sets her mouth against his ear and hisses, “ _Fuck me_.”

Something primal threatens to tear out of Link’s chest as he pushes Zelda against the bed, his motions steady and hard until she’s crying out with every thrust. She whispers not to stop so he just fucks her faster, grasping and clinging with an agonized moan. She’s making those noises again, only louder and more frantic, and as the climax hits her—pulsing and tight and almost sobbing his name—Link just drives in, grinding down, consumed by thoughts of _yes, yes, yes_ and _mine, mine, mine_ and _love, love, love—_

Link jerks back, gasping, suddenly overcome by the realization and the desperate need to tell her _._ “Zelda,” he chokes, hips stuttering, “ _Zelda,_ I—”

“I know,” she breathes, her trembling hands cradling his face again, “Link, _I know_ ,” and her eyes are warm and bright and tender and Link just—

He presses forward, burying his moan against her neck, and comes so hard he cries.

* * *

Later—after Link has dried his eyes, after they’ve tumbled apart to lie on their backs and their breathing is filling the silence—Zelda finds his hand, laces their fingers together, and says, “I love you too.”

* * *

They sleep bare that night, safe in his home in Hateno, and Link is woken by the light of early morning shining through the windows and a warm, pleasant weight in his lap. Zelda is sitting atop him when he opens his eyes, blankets pooled at her hips and Sheikah Slate in her hands, and Link is perfectly content in just laying there for a moment, absorbing the comfort and correctness of waking up with her in his bed—until he hears the soft _click_ from the Slate.

Link frowns, blinking up at her blearily as she reaches over to set the Slate on the nightstand. “Why?”

“Just immortalizing the memory,” Zelda says casually, leaning down to kiss him, and as her lips brush his she adds, “And the lighting is nice.”

Link just laughs, rolling them over until she’s laid out on her back, and pins her hips to the mattress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: the contraceptive method Zelda uses here is based on the real-life practice of [using Queen Anne’s Lace / Wild Carrot seeds as birth control](http://www.sisterzeus.com/qaluse.htm). It works much like the morning after pill. I took a few creative liberties for narrative purposes, and obviously there’s still a margin of risk, but there are a bunch of different ways to use it and it’s apparently very effective. Just thought I'd share!
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and love! Hope you enjoyed the ride — Link certainly did ;)


End file.
